


A Change of Plan

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Christmas Jumper, Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Sexual Content, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: In which Greg goes from moping over a bad pint the Friday before Christmas to something else entirely by New Year's Eve.There is Christmas and New Year fluff, with a dose of smut and Sherlock demonstrating his acceptance of their relationship as only he would.It's been marked as complete since the first chapter went up because it was meant to be a one-shot, but I can't seem to help myself.Fluff with no redeeming qualities.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RomanyWalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. 
> 
> Written as a Christmas gift for my dear friend Romany. I hate you very much.
> 
> For those not familiar with League of Gentlemen, if it looks like a typo - such a twelvety - there’s a good chance it’s a LoG reference. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful CindyLouWho. 
> 
> Feedback is given a loving home.
> 
> Any references to the League of Gentlemen are for local eyes only.

There was a definite air of melancholy lingering about Greg Lestrade, and the twinkling lights, tacky decorations, and The Pogues were doing fuck all to help. A reasonably early finish on a Friday, the weekend before Christmas - which he actually had off for a change - spread before him, and what was he doing? Propping up the bar in a pub with a sticky floor and a lingering odour of piss is what, and, just to add insult to injury, he’d met the bloke feeding the one armed bandit in the corner in a professional capacity. About fifteen years ago, mind, but in his experience people tended to remember the cop who nicked them.

Not particularly wanting to catch the attention of a man who’d twisted a bloke’s head off in a fit of rage, Greg swiftly made for the corner of the room which afforded him the best view of the other customers. Having always been a people watcher, his family hadn’t been at all surprised when he’d signed up for the police at eighteen, nor when he’d risen through the ranks. For a lad from Weston-super-Mare with a handful of O Levels and a charming smile he’d done well for himself; hard work, determination, and – he flattered himself – a knack for detective work had paid off and he’d made DI by forty five.

Not that he found much comfort in that now, sitting alone as he was on a Friday evening. He’d had friends once, he mused. An active social life, too, but that seemed to have evaporated at some point, and, try as he might, he couldn’t quite place when. By the time he and Katie had divorced, most of the friends he’d had left had been mutual friends, and they’d all taken her side; the poor neglected wife, driven to infidelity by a workaholic, negligent husband. Friends he’d made at the school gates had drifted away when Natalie had finished school and their common ground disappeared, and those from his own school days were long since gone. His team were a good bunch, but rank was a lingering shadow separating them in social situations, and they never truly relaxed around him. Most of the guys from his five-a-side league were a laugh, too, but a couple of them had made it all too clear that having him and his left foot on the pitch was fine as long as he kept anything even tangentially linked to being in a relationship with a bloke within the confines of his own head, which made the post-match pint and chat a bit awkward at best. He’d considered telling them to go and fuck themselves, but he enjoyed the matches and it was the best league for blokes of his age in the area, so dealing with them was on the back-burner until he had something concrete to get the bastards on.

Understanding how it had come about, however, did bugger all to change the fact that he was sitting alone, nursing a shit pint in a shithole of a pub. Of course, it wasn’t helping that he’d spent nearly every weekend – and a good portion of his weekdays, too – with Mycroft for the last eight months. Not that he’d admit it outside of his own head, but he knew that he was moping over the other man being away for work like a lovesick teenager. It apparently mattered not that the country was going to hell in a handbasket and that Mycroft was stuck in Brussels doing his damnedest to prevent Brexit from being an unmitigated disaster, because he was apparently addicted to their Friday evening dinner and drinks, and his own company was a woefully inadequate substitute.

He drank deeply, eyes sweeping his fellow customers, finding a mix of people celebrating festive period, habitual drinkers, and those hoping to get lucky. It was one of a latter who caught Greg’s eyes, a pretty redhead with curly hair, and he looked away hastily lest she think she had a chance. It wasn’t all that long ago that he would have given her a flirty wink, but apparently once you’d gone with Mycroft Holmes there was no going back.

It was then - with his usual impeccable timing - that Mycroft’s urbane voice broke through Greg’s melancholy like moonlight piering a stormcloud. “What on earth is a respectable establishment like this doing hosting a customer like you?”

Greg jumped slightly and his head shot up, eyes not quite believing what they were seeing. “You’re in Brussels until tomorrow,” he replied intelligently. 

“Evidently not.” Mycroft primly took the other seat at the small, wobbly table, carefully placing his glass of scotch at the very centre of the second beermat. The younger man stood out wherever he went, having an uncanny knack for making absolutely _anywhere_ look shabby, but attired in a pristine three piece suit and sitting in The Palatine, his effect was particularly striking. “I left early. The company was intolerable.”

“You never skip out early,” Greg said, slightly concerned. “Everything alright?” 

“I also don’t frequent pubs. Today is apparently the day for breaking lifelong habits.” The younger man sipped his scotch, barely suppressing a grimace. “I’m to fly back on Wednesday; even Brexit must stop for Christmas.”

Being a smart bloke, Greg quickly decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and reached out under the table to settle a hand on Mycroft’s knee. “So, anything exciting you’re allowed to share? The Prime Minister farting in the middle of a meeting, maybe?” Mycroft rarely shared anything about his work, of course, aside from the odd shark-like smirk before major political upsets hit the news, but Greg was always interested in the odd tidbits.

“Oh, nothing you couldn’t deduce for yourself. Impossibly imbecilic politicians attempting to negotiate an equally impossible compromise with an organisation determined to make an example of us,” Mycroft replied with biting sarcasm, opting to swirl the contents of his glass, rather than drink them. “We will, however, be returning to blue passports, so all is evidently not lost.”

“Yeah, well, it’s what people voted for. Fucking idiots are realising it now, too.”

Mycroft’s smile was sharp. “Indeed. Democracy: the system by which any two idiots can outvote a genius. Isn’t it wonderful in action?”

That pulled a laugh from Greg. “Ain’t it just? What was it Sherlock called it? Electoral suicide by the terminally stupid?”

“Yes, well, my little brother _is_ a genius,” Mycroft replied with a despairing glance at his glass. “Might I tempt you home? There is at least decent alcohol.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m enjoying the ambience and smell of piss in here.” Greg necked the rest of his pint and stood swiftly.

“You do have keys, Greg,” Mycroft said with a hint of reproach in his voice. “They’re as effective when I’m not there as when I am.”

Greg shrugged into his coat. “As much as I’d love to spend long, lonely nights sniffing your sheets and sleeping in your pyjamas, I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m a weirdo or something.”

The resultant eye roll spoke volumes, but the small smile that followed spoke louder. “A weirdo in one’s bed is one of the pitfalls of developing a romantic attachment, I understand,” Mycroft replied casually, and Greg felt a flutter at the casual confirmation that his…well, boyfriend, for lack of a less juvenile word, was indeed attached to him. Coming from a man who frequently espoused that caring was not an advantage, it did appalling things to his ability to think straight. “You are at least housebroken and not in the habit of shooting my walls or rearranging the furniture, unlike my other regular visitor.”

“Speaking of your brother, there was a foot in my fridge on Wednesday. A _foot_ , Mycroft,” Greg lamented as they stepped out into the street, where there was a car idling immediately outside the pub. 

Outside of the tight confines of the pub, Mycroft placed a hand low on Greg’s back a they walked the short distance to the car. “Yes, well, I’m given to understand that Mrs Hudson has taken to ruthlessly disposing of any human body parts. She apparently feels that they’re inappropriate to be kept around the Watson spawn.”

The back of the car was dim and the privacy screen already raised, so Greg sat as close to the other man as he could without sitting _on_ him. Though it had been less than a week since they had parted it felt like much longer, and the scant space between them was an insult. “About time, I reckon. Get them gone before Rosie thinks it's normal to find spleens in the microwave,” he replied, leaning in for a lingering kiss. “So, you’re mine for the weekend. Any idea what you want to get up to?”

“Hmm, one or two.” Mycroft’s hand landed on Greg’s upper thigh. “A trip to a garden centre, perhaps.”

Brushing his lips across Mycroft’s jawline, Greg hummed. “Yeah, I suppose we could. Get up early; out of bed; into clothes--”

As interruptions went, shutting him up with a kiss was about as good as it got in Greg’s view, and he melted into it. “I think not,” Mycroft breathed against his lips, after a kiss which was both lingering and over far too soon.

The fingertips of the hand on Greg’s thigh circled higher and higher until they were within millimeters of being exactly where he wanted them. “Keep that up and I’ll jump you in your fancy car,” he warned, voice low.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” came the teasing response, though Mycroft’s fingers continued their upward circling until they were brushing Greg’s crotch with a feather-light touch. “My driver would be traumatised.”

Greg huffed a laugh and brought their lips together again. “I’m sure she’s seen worse. You know, routine assassinations, torture of diplomats, that kind of thing.”

“We only do those things on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and it was hardly my fault that the ambassador’s aide had his face cut off,” Mycroft replied blandly, just as the car drew to a stop. “Shall we continue this inside?”

Not entirely sure whether to take the other man seriously or not, Greg watched as he gracefully unfolded himself from the car. “No, not asking,” he decided as he followed, and the expression on the driver’s face as she held the door open told him that that was the wise choice. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

Barbara smiled enigmatically as she closed the door with a snap. “Good night, sir.”

The temperature had dropped since they’d left the pub, and when Greg looked ahead to follow Mycroft he was surprised to find that it was snowing. Well, barely there snowflakes fluttering in the moonlight more than proper snowfall, perhaps, but even that was a rarity in London in recent years. “Should I put a fiver on a white Christmas?” he asked as Mycroft unlocked the door. 

“No; it will turn milder tomorrow. Put the money on Crystal Palace beating Arsenal - three goals to two - on the twenty eighth instead. I can tell you who will score first, too, if you like.” 

As surprised as he was that Mycroft was apparently following the Premiership fixtures, it took far longer than it should have for Greg to register the beautifully decorated eight foot Christmas tree dominating the entrance hall. Managing to miss it was really quite the feat considering that it towered over the pair of them and was festooned with twinkling white lights and no doubt ridiculously expensive glass baubles. 

“I thought you didn’t do Christmas? Something about it being a pagan festival bastardised by the church and now being used to lure idiots into bankruptcy,” Greg said, remembering with clarity Mycroft’s scathing retort the first and only time that he’d asked after his Christmas plans. 

“I don’t ‘do Christmas’,” Mycroft replied with faint distaste, holding out a hand for Greg’s coat. “You, however, do, and I was rather hoping that you would spend it here.”

“You want me here for Christmas?” Greg asked, warmth suffusing his body.

“Yes. You’ll be here for the weekend as usual, so it makes no sense for you to go home on Monday when neither of us is expected at work until Wednesday, Christmas or not.” Mycroft turned and headed into the study - where the best booze was kept - with Greg hot on his heels. With it’s floor-to-ceiling bookcases, dark wood furniture, and roaring open fire the room was so very _Mycroft_ that it was by far Greg’s favourite room in the rambling old house. “Natalie is spending the festive period with her boyfriend’s parents and you don’t like your sister’s husband so won’t go there,” the younger man continued, pouring two healthy measures of scotch.

“You don’t come second to Val and Harvey, Mycroft,” Greg asserted firmly and closed the space between them to take his hand. “I’d love to spend it with you. The only thing that’d make it better would be having Nat home for Christmas.”

Mycroft smiled, a small but genuine quirk of his lips, and handed Greg a glass. “Perhaps she and David could join us next year.”

Doing his damnedest to ignore the way his heart suddenly seemed to swell, Greg twined their fingers together and sipped his drink to buy himself a few moments to think. He knew that _he_ was serious about their relationship, but the thought of Mycroft meeting his daughter and having plans together that far in advance was something else entirely. “I should probably introduce you sooner rather than later, then,” he said, needing confirmation that he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. “They’re coming down from Derby next weekend and I’m taking them for a belated Christmas dinner on New Year's Eve. Fancy joining us?”

“Yes, it’s past time that we met,” Mycroft replied decisively. He finished his drink and carefully placed the empty glass on the sideboard. “The food is better at Luigi's than Punchinello’s; I’ll have the reservations changed.”

Having long since learned not to argue with Mycroft about where they would be dining, Greg accepted the change in plans without a thought and tossed back the rest of his own drink. “We’re booked in for eight. Are you going to be able to get a table at that notice?”

The resultant smirk shouldn’t have been sexy, but God did it make Greg’s heart race. “I’m Mycroft Holmes: of course I can.”

Greg didn’t even try to fight the smile that he could feel taking over his face. “In that case, you’d better brush up on your sign language. She's going to give you an absolute grilling, even if only in revenge for when I met David.”

“I’m sure that I’ll manage,” Mycroft replied, stepping closer. The red in his hair glowed in the light of the flames dancing in the hearth, and Greg was unable to resist threading his fingers through the fine strands. “Now, before we go any further, there is a very serious issue to be addressed, and I’m afraid that it simply cannot wait any longer.”

“Oh, yeah?” Greg used the hand in the other man’s hair to guide him down for a tender kiss. “And what might that be?”

“This _awful_ jumper,” came the vaguely distressed response. “It’s an assault on taste and decency.”

Looking down his torso, Greg took in the chest-sized reindeer surrounded by glittery snowflakes and grinned. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s egregious. An abomination,” Mycroft replied with a pained downward glance. 

“What, you don’t think he’s kinda cute?” Greg released his hold on Mycroft’s hair and quickly searched out the button concealed by wool on the left side of his chest. “What about now?” he asked and pressed it, causing Rudolph’s nose to flash garishly.

“Most certainly not. I’m afraid that you’re going to have to remove it immediately,” replied Mycroft, face the very picture of horrified fascination.

“I’ve got nothing on under it; you’re going to have to keep me warm if it comes off.”

Mycroft lowered his head for a kiss and Greg felt warm fingers questing under the hem of the jumper. “I can think of worse fates.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added because my brain apparently wanted Christmas smut. 
> 
> Thank you to CindyLouWho for her beta work. 
> 
> Feedback is given a loving home.

The quilt beneath his back was luxuriously soft, but the cock driving into him was hard and unrelenting, and Greg was loving every second of it. The initial burn had given way to a delicious fullness as it always did, and he clenched _hard _, wanting - no, needing – Mycroft to know how much he was enjoying it. His lover responded with a low, deep noise, and it sent a frission of pure need sparking down Greg’s spine. He lifted his left leg, bracing his weight through the right, and wrapped it around Mycroft’s waist, using the leverage to meet the other man’s next thrust.__

__A change in angle was all it took for Mycroft’s cock to strike gold, and Greg keened, long and low, as he desperately scrabbled at the bedding for purchase. He’d never have imagined that he could have this, a lover who knew _exactly_ what he needed, but have it he did. It hadn’t come as a surprise that Mycroft was incredible in bed, that he could read Greg’s every need and desire and give it to him before the thought had even fully coalesced in his mind. What he needed right then was to be taken hard, pulled apart, and then put back together, and fucking hell did Mycroft deliver. His lover carefully lowered himself until Greg’s cock was pressed between their sweat-slick abdomens, supporting his weight through one liberally freckled arm, and grasped Greg by the arse with his free hand, using the grip to pull them impossibly closer. Simultaneously picking up the pace, he seamlessly transitioned from the deep, driving strokes to sharp, powerful jabs, and Greg felt himself shatter into a thousand tiny pieces._ _

__How long it took for the white to fade from his vision and his brain to come back on line Greg couldn’t say, but when it did he opened his eyes to find Mycroft with his head thrown back, long neck stretched in an elegant arch of exquisitely pale skin, and his bottom lip bitten in pleasure. It was a sight he knew that he would never tire of seeing, and the privilege of being allowed to witness it caused emotion to flare hotly inside him._ _

__When Mycroft lowered himself fully, bodily pressing Greg into the mattress, his softening cock was pushed deeper and the older man heard himself moan at the sensation. “Fuck, you’re incredible,” he told Mycroft, almost reverently._ _

__Mycroft hummed and took Greg’s lips in a tender kiss. “It’s surprising what the right motivation can inspire.”_ _

__“Ain’t it just?” Greg relaxed the leg still wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, unable to restrain a pained groan when his muscles protested at having been in such a position for so long. “I’m getting too old for this,” he lamented, dropping his leg onto the bed with a soft thump._ _

__“Nonsense,” Mycroft replied, lips brushing Greg’s jaw. “You’re in excellent condition.”_ _

__“You’re biased,” Greg deflected with a smile, reaching up to thread the fingers of his left hand through Mycroft’s hair. The soft strands seemed to glow in the late morning light flooding through the mullioned windows, and he used the grip to guide the other man’s mouth back to his own for a lingering kiss._ _

__“I appear to be suffering from a chemical defect. At one time I’d have set someone onto finding a cure, but I now find myself quite happy to be afflicted.”_ _

__“Poor, addled Mycroft Holmes. If only the nation’s enemies knew; it’d be bedlam.”_ _

__The suddenly narrowed eyes promised retribution, but before Greg could find out exactly what said retribution would entail the bedroom door flew open and the world’s only consulting detective burst into the room. “Oh, good, you’ve finished,” he declared, swinging himself up to perch atop the antique chest of drawers._ _

__“Really, Sherlock, is now the time?” Mycroft snapped, carefully lifting himself off Greg. The uncoupling was always going to be Greg’s least favourite part of penetrative sex, and it took a concerted effort to keep his face from broadcasting as much to their unwanted guest._ _

__They’d barely been dressed for five minutes before things had got out of hand that morning, but it did at least mean that their clothes were within easy reach. Greg moved and grabbed his discarded shirt, draping it hastily over himself in a futile attempt to preserve at least some of his dignity. “Fuck off, Sherlock,” he said, watching regretfully as Mycroft left the bed. His lover was unabashed in his nudity, but Greg found himself very reluctant to share the view with anyone else, even if it was the other man’s brother._ _

__“No,” Sherlock replied, utterly unapologetic. “I allowed you three minutes to enjoy your post-coital bliss. What more do you want?”_ _

__“And why did you feel the need to interrupt our ‘post-coital bliss’?” Mycroft interceded as he stepped into his underwear. Greg watched his lover’s gaze sharpen on his brother and the subsequent expression of understanding form. “Oh, of course; your pet doctor is paying a festive visit to his family and Mrs Hudson’s Christmas cheer has grown wearisome. Perhaps you should have joined our parents for their line dancing jaunt, little brother. You always did suit tassels.”_ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do shut up, _Mikey_. I’m not here to see you; I need your paramour for a case.”_ _

__Wiping a hand across his face in despair, Greg growled. “No, Sherlock. Not a cat in hell’s chance.”_ _

__"You owe me a favour: I'm calling it in." Sherlock swung his legs insouciantly, allowing his heels to bang against Mycroft’s drawers. “Anyway, you’ll be back by teatime if we leave now.” He smirked suddenly, apparently amused. “Well, perhaps not right now. I doubt that many people would find your current state as appealing as my brother does, and you might want to at least wipe down before the semen becomes crusty.”_ _

__Greg groaned in abject mortification and grabbed Mycroft’s pillow, covering his face with it. “No. It’s Boxing Day and I’m off duty and you’re going to fuck off right now.”_ _

__The bed dipped to his right as Mycroft sat, and Greg felt a warm, firm hand land on his thigh. “My little brother has never had the emotional intelligence required to be able to appreciate the value of intimacy. He's very limited in that regard,” he said, tone pitched in such a way as to make the criticism cutting. "It may be best to humour him in this."_ _

__

__

__Grinning into the pillow at hearing Sherlock’s annoyed huff, Greg blindly reached out and laced his fingers with Mycroft’s. “So, tell me why the second smartest man in London needs a lowly detective inspector to help him solve a case.”_ _

__The resultant eye roll was audible even if Greg couldn’t see it through four inches of eiderdown. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve solved the case but need a semi-competent officer to make the arrest.” Sherlock banged his heels against the drawers again, ignoring his brother’s admonition to behave like an adult. “Unless, of course, you’d rather lounge around in bed and let a people smuggling ringmaster continue snatching wives until you’re _'on duty'_.”_ _

__With a weary groan, Greg lifted the pillow from his face and dropped it onto his chest. “You’re a right bastard,” he told the younger Holmes, resigned to his fate._ _

__“Yes,” Sherlock replied blandly. “How remarkably astute. You could almost be mistaken for a detective.” He boosted himself off the chest of drawers, landing lightly on his feet, and flicked his collar up. “Five minutes, Greg.” With that, he swept out of the room, allowing the door to slam behind him._ _

__“He’s a bastard.”_ _

__“Yes.” Mycroft's tone almost mirrored his brother’s, though there was distinct fondness lurking about the edges. He stroked Greg’s thigh sympathetically and bent down for a lingering kiss. “You should take his comfort with you as a compliment. My last… romantic partner was stalked by his homeless network, had his bank and email accounts hacked, and his utilities repeatedly cut off at the source.”_ _

__“That was Brian, yeah? The twat who tried to blackmail you?” When Mycroft inclined his head, Greg continued, “Sherlock’s no idiot. He knows I love you and that I’d cut my own arm off before I’d hurt you.” A faint flush stained Mycroft’s cheeks, as it always did when Greg expressed the strength of his feelings. He sat up and cupped the back of Mycroft’s head, drawing him in for a sweet kiss. “I mean it. You know that, and he knows that. If it means your pain in the arse of a brother thinks it’s okay to burst in when we’re still...you know, well, I can live with that.”_ _

__Mycroft smiled a small but genuine smile and opened his mouth, but Greg was destined not to find out what he planned to say, for Sherlock’s shouted, “Three minutes, Lestrade!” broke the moment._ _

__“Are you sure about that? You could be forgiven for changing your mind.”_ _

__Releasing Mycroft with a laugh, Greg reluctantly rolled out of bed, pulling a face at the tackiness on his abdomen and between his legs. He dropped his soiled shirt into the laundry hamper and darted into the en-suite for a cursory wipe down. “Want me to pick up dinner on my way back?”_ _

__“Please. Reigate Square is open as usual. Give them my name and we’ll get extra spring rolls.”_ _

__Greg returned to the bedroom and stepped into the trousers that Mycroft had so eagerly stripped from him barely an hour ago. “Text me if you think of anything else.”_ _

__Mycroft was silent for a long moment. “Perhaps you’d like to exact some revenge on my appallingly vain brother for his atrocious timing?”_ _

__The mischievous tone made effortlessly made Greg smile. It wasn’t often that Mycroft’s playful side came out, but he thoroughly enjoyed it whenever it made an appearance. “Oh, yeah, definitely. What did you have in mind?”_ _

__He watched, eyes magnetically drawn to his lover’s long, shapely legs as he crossed the room to his chest of drawers. The pale, freckled back was almost too tempting to resist, but Greg was glad for his willpower when Mycroft pulled his Rudolph jumper from the back of the bottom drawer. The younger man turned with a smirk and held out the garment as though handling radioactive material. “In that case, might I suggest that you wear this?”_ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the marvellous CindyLouWho.
> 
> This story was finished after the first chapter but I can't seem to help myself. Feedback is loved and given a good home.
> 
> Happy New Year, people.

“Bollocks,” Greg cursed emphatically, glaring at his reflection in the full length mirror. No matter what he tried he just couldn’t get the blasted knot of his tie right, and there was less than an hour before they were due at the restaurant to meet Nat. Not that she’d care a whit if his suit was less than perfectly laundered or his tie was off centre, but it wasn’t every day that he introduced his little girl to the man he was rapidly coming to hope that he was going to be spending the rest of his life with, and he wanted to get it right. And, even if Nat wouldn’t care, he didn't want to be wandering around looking like Mycroft’s bit of rough.

“You do not look like my ‘bit of rough’, Greg,” Mycroft chided, looking up from where he was perched on the end of the bed putting his socks on.

“You know it’s really creepy when you do that, yeah?” Watching in the mirror as Mycroft stood and approached, Greg jerked the thick portion of his tie sharply and felt it unravel from around his neck.

“So I’ve been told. More than once, in fact.” Mycroft wrapped and arm around Greg’s waist, using it to pull them flush. “May I?”

“Oh, yeah, have at it. The pissing thing’s got a bloody mind of its own, though.”

“The trick,” Mycroft started, warm lips brushing Greg’s jaw as his deft hands went to work, quickly producing a perfect half Windsor knot, “is to make sure that you have the tension right before you start forming the loops.”

“Oh, is that it?” Greg replied, pressing his back to Mycroft’s front, enjoying his body heat and wanting to prolong the moment. The younger man had flown back out to Brussels at arse o’clock on Wednesday morning and Greg had been back at his flat until he’d returned that afternoon. After four consecutive nights with Mycroft it had felt colder and emptier than ever, and the thought of returning there after dinner was only made bearable by the knowledge that Nat was going back with him. He loved having his little girl home even if he didn’t like the home itself.

Mycroft hummed and applied his teeth to Greg’s earlobe. “This new cologne suits you.”

Having paid a small fortune for it, even in the sale, Greg was pleased that he liked it. He’d had him in mind when he bought it, after all. “Good.” He turned in Mycroft’s arms and cupped his jaw, drawing him down for a kiss.

Mycroft returned the kiss, allowing it to deepen slowly, running his hands across Greg’s shoulders and down his back until they were settled at his waist. “I assume that Natalie and David will be staying with you tonight."

“Yeah. They’re going back up north on the second. Tonight with me and then at Katie’s for New Year’s day,” he confirmed, running his thumb across Mycroft’s clean shaven jaw, not wanting to admit that he was going to be sleeping on the sofa because his spare room wasn’t anything like large enough to accommodate a proper bed. “I’ve washed my spare set of bedding and everything. Had to do something with you away terrorising Europe’s political elite.”

“They’ll realise that it’s the civil servants who hold the power one day,” Mycroft said with a shark-like smirk. “Now, as for your plans. I’ve asked Iris to prepare one of the spare rooms; your daughter visiting is no reason for you not to stay with me as usual.”

Greg looked at him intently; inviting people he didn’t know to stay was a big step for a man with a self-professed apathy for most of humanity, and it took Greg a long moment to convince himself that Mycroft was actually making the suggestion at such short notice. Making plans for it a year in advance was a very different beast to arranging it on the fly. After all, it wouldn’t beyond Mycroft’s means to fabricate some crisis or other if he wanted to get out of spending time with guests he’d invited into his own home. “You do realise that twice the number of Lestrades in your house will mean twice the trouble? David’s terrified of me so won’t be a problem, but Nat’s always been a mini-me: expect chaos to reign.”

“I look forward to it,” Mycroft murmured, pressing their lips together briefly. “On the subject of where you’re spending your time, I have another proposal for you.”

A curious mix of apprehension and excitement took up root in Greg’s abdomen and he felt his heart pound. _Surely_ this wasn’t going to be what it sounded like. “Yeah?” he asked with a determined effort to keep his voice level.

“I’d like you to stay with me. Permanently.” Mycroft’s tone and bearing were almost - _almost_ \- normal, but Greg knew him far too well not to detect the discomfiture lurking about the edges. He was a detective, after all. “The house is empty without you. I like leaving work knowing that you’ll be there when I get home. Going to sleep and knowing that you’re going to be there when I wake up. I’ve never enjoyed being around people, but I find your presence soothing, irrespective of crumbs in bed and underwear on the floor.”

That, right there, was the most Mycroft had said about them as a couple or their relationship in one go, and the words did _very_ funny things to Greg’s insides. _Not an eighteen year old girl, _he reminded himself firmly, making a valiant attempt not to grin like a loon. “For clarity’s sake, you want me to live with you? As in all the time, and not just weekends and the odd weekday?”__

__“Yes.” Mycroft lifted a hand and carded his fingers through Greg’s hair. “I know that I’m not an easy man to be with. Not a nice man by any definition. I’ll understand if you’d rather not, of course—“_ _

__“—Are you mad? You’ve kissed me after you’ve eaten _Marmite_ , Mycroft; there’s nothing I couldn’t forgive after that.” Greg tilted his head into Mycroft’s hand, enjoying the sensation of the other man’s manicured fingernails against his scalp. “I _missed_ you. Going back home this week was bloody horrible.” As flats went his wasn’t at all bad, really. It was small but had everything he needed, and was within striking distance of the Tube. But it had only ever been somewhere to live after the divorce. It wasn’t home. It never had been, and knowing what he had when he stayed with Mycroft meant that it never would be. “If you want me living with you, I’m yours.”_ _

__A fleeting expression of relief stole across Mycroft’s face. “In that case, I’ll arrange to have your things moved. Do you have any particular attachment to your furniture?”_ _

__Greg huffed a laugh, running a hand down Mycroft’s back to rest in the curve at the base of his spine. He couldn’t believe that this was happening, that they were going to be _living together_ , but apparently it was and they were. “Nope. Can’t see much of my IKEA crap blending in at your house even if I did.”_ _

__“ _Our_ house, Greg,” Mycroft corrected firmly. “It’s our house.”_ _

__“Right, our house,” Greg smiled, still feeling somewhat stunned; a bit over a week ago they’d just agreed to spend Christmas together and now he was moving in, and it was all a bit surreal. “When do you want to do this?” He’d have been more than happy to never spend another night at his flat, but for as long as he’d known Mycroft it had been blatantly obvious that he valued his space and privacy, and Greg didn’t want to fuck this up by rushing things._ _

__“Tonight,” Mycroft replied decisively. “Come home with me tonight and your belongings will be here by tomorrow noon. There’s little point in delaying it now.”_ _

__“Tonight,” Greg repeated. He kissed Mycroft deeply, lips and tongue conveying more than he could hope to verbally. “I’m moving in with you. Tonight.”_ _

__The smile he received was warm with more than a hint of self-satisfaction. “Indeed, and not before time.” Mycroft’s hands dropped to Greg’s arse and he acquired a firm grip, thumbs stroking through the fabric of his shirt tails and boxers. “Now, as much a I’ve been enjoying the sight of you half-dressed I’d rather not share it with the rest of London,” he said, tone half lascivious and half possessive in a way that set Greg’s pulse racing fast enough that he was sure that the other man couldn’t help but feel it. "Perhaps we should finish dressing."_ _

__

__

__Greg laughed and stepped back after one last kiss. “You shouldn’t be so bloody distracting then, should you?” He crossed to the bed where his best trousers were laid out, perfectly pressed thanks to the numerous talents of Iris, Mycroft’s cleaner. “I doubt Nat’ll think twice about staying here tonight, but if she does I’ll go home tonight and we can do the move tomorrow. Start the new year right.”_ _

__“No,” Mycroft replied, making no attempt the mask that his gaze was firmly on Greg’s thighs until the black fabric of his trousers covered them, at which point he flicked his eyes up to pin him with a look so intense that Greg felt it to the very centre of his being, “in that case, you will stay at that flat tonight and return here tomorrow. You'll come _home_.”_ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my dear CindyLouWho. Many thanks to you. 
> 
> Rom, merry Christmas, love. I hate you very much. 
> 
> Continued this year because I can't resist Christmas fluff.

Greg settled into the back of the car, mind drifting somewhere in the heavy clouds above London. How the hell cursing at his tie had led to Mycroft asking him to move in he didn’t know, but he’d fight a losing battle with strips of silk every damned day of the week if it got results like _that_.

“Are you planning to speak again tonight? You’re only usually this quiet when Arsenal are playing,” Mycroft queried, voice laced with amusement. He placed his left hand over Greg’s right knee and squeezed. “Profanity and wild gesticulation aside, of course.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not every night the boyfriend asks me to move in, is it? I’ve got a lot to think about and not all of us can spin Machiavellian plots for world domination at the same time as fifty other things.” 

“‘The boyfriend’?” Mycroft sneered, the words positively saturated in disdain. “What on earth have I done to deserve _that_ particular atrocity?”

Greg’s face heated. “Yeah, well, that’s what you are. I’ve had my hand down your pants and everything.”

“You do realise that we’re both what might be termed ‘middle aged’, yes?” Mycroft asked with some asperity and the vague air of an angry cat. “If you’re going to insist on labelling me, I should prefer ‘partner’ to ‘boyfriend’ by several orders of magnitude. It at least implies a level of commitment and maturity inherently lacking in —”

“— Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Greg cut in, doing his damnedest not to laugh. “So, my _partner_ asked me to live him, and it’s kind of a big deal. Lots to think about and all that guff.”

“‘All that guff’?” One raised eyebrow could speak with astounding eloquence, Greg had discovered since meeting the Holmes brothers, but he still wasn’t fluent in the language. Luckily, Mycroft _was_ fluent in Greg’s puzzled silences and befuddled expressions, and deigned to give voice to his thoughts. “We have a flat, which we have agreed you will be moving into tonight. Your belongings will be arriving tomorrow. Your furniture and appliances are surplus to requirement and will be dealt with accordingly. What other ‘guff’ can there possibly be for you to think about?”

“It’s a big step,” Greg replied, taking Mycroft’s hand in his own and squeezing. “We’ve known each other for over a decade but we’ve only been together for, what, eight, nine months? What if you decide it’s too much? Or we don’t get on as well as we think we’re going to and we lose this?” He lifted their joint hands and gestured vaguely between them. “Then there’s bills and shit. You’re loaded and I’m really not. I’m on a decent wage, but my salary’s not even going to cover your dry cleaning bill, is it?”

A brief flash of relief stole across Mycroft’s face. “If that’s all you’re concerned about, my dear, allow me to put your mind at rest: it’s nonsense. Do you honestly think that I would have entered into this relationship had I any doubt at all about its longevity?” The younger man inclined his head when Greg shook his and continued, “Good. This is _not_ going to be ‘too much’ for me. _You_ are not going to be too much for me.” He lifted their hands and pressed a tender kiss to the back of Greg’s fingers. “As for the ‘bills and shit’, please don’t concern yourself: I didn’t ask you to move in for your money.”

Greg shook his head. “I’m not moving in and not paying my way, Mycroft.” The dramatic eye roll wouldn’t have been out of place on Sherlock, but Greg knew better than to tell his partner that, as much as it amused him. “I’m serious. I need to be an equal partner in this; there’s no way I’m moving in and just letting you pay for everything.”

“Fine,” Mycroft replied, tone suggesting that he was batting away a particularly irritating fly. “We each pay fifty percent of our salary into a joint account to cover household expenses and our joint activities.”

“Right, and fifty percent of mine is, what, twelvety percent of yours? That’s hardly equal.” Greg could hear the frustration in his own voice and made an effort to rein it in, continuing, “I’d offer you my body in recompense, but that’s yours already.”

“Be pragmatic about this, Greg,” Mycroft replied, audibly striving for patience. “I earn significantly more than you do and my financial situation is very different, so our monetary contributions are not going to be equal, regardless of how much you ‘need’ them to be. I refuse to allow this to be a barrier to us living together. I don’t need your money, but I _do_ need you. It’s really very simple.”

Greg sighed and squeezed Mycroft’s hand as he thought. He didn’t like it but knew that the other man was right and there wasn’t a whole lot to be done for it. “Simple as that,” he said, flicking his eyes up in time to catch the worry etched into the lines around Mycroft’s eyes before his partner could smooth them away. 

“Yes. As simple a that.” Mycroft’s tone was firm and brooked no argument. He looked out of the window and Greg followed his gaze, recognising the street they were turning onto. “We’re almost there. Do was have an accord?”

He thought that he _should_ have more to think about. More to worry about. That going from being a financially independent man to one contributing nothing like his partner would be to their life together should bother him more, but when it came down to it, the flying fuck he thought he should be giving could fly away to bother someone else. Mycroft was right and no amount of wishful thinking and idealising was going to change it. Something settled inside him when he reconciled himself to that and he shifted in his seat until Mycroft’s lips were within kissing range. “Yeah,” he said, sealing the deal with kiss. “We have an accord.”

“In that case, no more of this nonsense,” Mycroft smiled. Greg looked at the other man in the street light flickering through the tinted windows, taking in his receding hairline, the lines bracketing his eyes, the way the skin around his jawline and under his chin was beginning to sag and lose its elasticity, and felt a surge of love so strong it almost hurt. He might be well past his prime, with a newly dodgy back and a lifetime of bad habits, but he hadn’t felt so content for too many years to count, but everything told him that it was for keeps this time. Having apparently deduced exactly what was going through Greg’s mind, Mycroft blanked his expression and glared haughtily down his nose. “Enough of that, if you don’t mind; I can’t have Natalie thinking I’m the kind of man who habitually puts _that_ particular expression on your face.”

Greg laughed, but the car started to slow before he could reply. A quick glance out of the window showed that they had arrived, and that Nat was standing under the restaurant’s awning with David, bouncing on the balls of her feet with anticipation.

“She really is your double, isn’t she? I hadn’t appreciated quite how much from the photographs.” 

“Yeah, she is. Just wait until she comes down for breakfast in the morning; you’ll really see it then.”

“I look forward to it,” said Mycroft, amused, and reached for the door handle. “Shall we?”

As the car door opened, a blast of cold December air hit Greg in the face and it was just enough to distract him from the ‘fuck, I’m introducing Nat to Mycroft!’ that started to scream through his head without the distraction of conversation. He followed his partner out onto the street just in time to see Nat drop her bag and dart out from under the awning signing an enthusiastic ‘hello’ with a beaming smile. She flew at him as soon as Greg was clear of the car door, long brown hair flying behind her. He wrapped his arms around her and felt something that had been missing since the last time she’d visited click back into place. Though he’d have stayed like that forever and day given the opportunity, something in the back of his mind was vociferously pointing out that leaving his daughter’s boyfriend to deal with Mycroft Holmes on his own was deeply unkind for their first meeting, particularly given that he’d only actually met Greg the once and had, by all accounts, been left verging on traumatised by the experience. 

Holding Nat out at arm’s length, Greg gave her a quick once over, satisfying himself that she was physically well and in one piece, and turned his attention to David. He was a tall, slender young man with dark hair and an easy way about him, though that had taken some time to come to the fore when they had met for the first time. Finding himself trying to make small talk with Mycroft - however briefly - was enough to send it back into hiding, too. 

“Good to see you again,” Greg signed with what he hoped was a friendly smile, and nodded at the door. “Let’s get inside and I’ll introduce you all properly.” 

“You’d better!” Nat replied enthusiastically, flicking her eyes at Mycroft with a mischievous smile.

Mycroft responded with a positively charming smile of his own. “He has no choice in the matter, I assure you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg interceded before they decided to gang up on him and reached for the door, ushering them inside.

As soon as the door closed behind them, they were greeted by a young man with dark, slicked back hair and an oily smile. “It’s good to see you again, Mr Holmes,” he said with broad northern accent, smiling at the rest of their party. “Please, follow me.”

“Thank you, Karl,” Mycroft replied, following the waiter with Nat and David close behind and Greg bringing up the rear. 

Luigi’s was one of those few places that managed to strike the perfect balance between busy enough that it must be good and quiet enough that they weren’t likely to have drinks or meals spilled on them when the wait staff had to force their way through too-tightly-packed tables. On one particular occasion in the early days of their romantic relationship, after having had a touch too much wine with his dinner, Mycroft had spoken at some length about how the balance was struck, and listed precisely seventeen other reasons for which it was his favourite place in London to dine. Even so many months down the line, that stood out as one of their better dates and Greg really couldn’t think of a better place for the people who meant the most to him to meet. 

The table they were taken to was tucked away at the back of restaurant by a large window overlooking its small courtyard garden. Despite being in a corner, the lighting was excellent and the square table big enough that they could all see one another without contorting, and would be able to sign freely without hitting crockery, cutlery, or each other, which had been a real problem in far too many eateries. Greg had absolutely no doubt that the restaurant had been given _very_ precise directions about how they were to be accommodated, and shot a grateful smile at Mycroft at as they took their seats.

Leaning forward eagerly, Nat directed a beaming smile across the table. “So, spill!”

Not being above teasing his little girl, Greg forced his face into a bland expression. “How was Christmas?”

“Dad!” Nat exclaimed, directing his own glare at him.

“Behave, Greg,” Mycroft interrupted, the reprimand shining through loud and clear in the sharpness of his flawless signs. He turned the full weight of his attention to Nat and David, smiling more warmly than Greg had seen inside the first eighteen months of their acquaintance, and his hands flew into action with fluency and grace. “I’m Mycroft Holmes, your father’s partner.” He paused and Greg watched as his daughter’s smile softened. “We’ve been together since March, but I’ve been privileged to count him a friend for thirteen years.”

“And you only told me it was serious last week!” Nat burst out with an accusatory scowl at Greg, hands flying furiously. “Seriously, Dad!”

Guiltily, because his ‘I’m kind of seeing someone’ had _never_ been an adequate descriptor for his relationship with Mycroft, Greg replied, “Sorry, sweetheart. But, in my defence, it only really got serious recently.”

Mycroft got their attention with an elegant gesture. “Much of the blame for that lies with me; I failed to communicate the depth of my feelings to your father and left him in doubt of the strength of my commitment to our relationship. He didn’t want to involve you in something he doubted the permanence of.”

In Greg’s experience, Mycroft had never been unable to find the right words at the right time, and he watched as the younger man scored yet another win. Nat relaxed, which David apparently took as a sign that he could, too, and pointed at the menus at the centre of the table. “What’s good here?”

“You’re a beer man, I see,” Mycroft replied without needing to consult a menu. “The Birradamare Bifuel, perhaps. A genuine Italian beer and not mass produced to satisfy louts.”

“Yeah, he’s a snob,” Greg said when that surprised a laugh out of the younger couple. “I’ve never known him to make a bad recommendation yet, though.”

Apparently keen to test that, Nat leant forward in her seat. “For me?”

“The house Shiraz is excellent. Shall we split a bottle and leave your father to his London Pride?” Mycroft had never been a physically expressive man, his facial expressions generally limited to ‘blank’, vaguely amused’, ‘not _again_ , Sherlock’, ‘someone is going to die’, and ‘do that again, Greg’. Tonight, however, his face had come alive, effortlessly providing the context and emotion his hands needed to make the conversation work. At that very moment, a thousand spoken words could not have conveyed his disdain for Greg’s precious London Pride as eloquently as his grimace did.

“Oi, leave off!” Greg interrupted when Nat immediately agreed with him. “What’s wrong with London Pride?”

“What’s right with it?” David asked, lips twitching into a smile. Apparently pleased that he was relaxing into the evening, Nat nodded in agreement, hair bouncing around her shoulders with the movement, and kissed his cheek.

Fortunately for his companions, Karl reappeared to take their drinks order, cutting off Greg’s impassioned defence of his favoured tipple at the knees. With a mock glare at the pair of them, he turned his attention to the waiter and quickly ordered their drinks.

“Enough of that,” Nat said, as soon as Karl’s back was turned. “I need details!”

For a moment, Greg considered drawing things out a touch longer, but decided that would be unkind before the thought had fully formed. “We’ve been together since March, but I’ve fancied the pants off him for years,” he replied, as much for Mycroft’s huff as the laughs he knew it would win from his daughter and David. “We’ve been spending our weekends together for months, so I guess I should have seen how serious it was, but you know how daft your old dad is.” When Nat signed an impatient demand for more, he continued, “We spent Christmas together and tonight he asked me to live with him. I said ‘yes’.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg noticed that the set of Mycroft’s shoulder’s visibly relaxed when Nat clapped her hands together, smiling hugely. “Brilliant!” she signed emphatically with a happy sound, jumping up and dashing around the table for a hug. 

Greg stood and wrapped his arms tightly around her as a smiling David rose and held out a somewhat hesitant hand to Mycroft across the table, which was duly shaken with all of the gravity that the situation deserved. Greg released his little girl and moved back enough to be able to speak. “Sure you don’t want to check him out a bit before you just hand me over?” 

“Nope,” Nat grinned, stepping past Greg to pull Mycroft into a warm hug. The older man covered his mouth, trying to hide his smile at Mycroft’s stunned expression, but it was a futile effort; the glare it earned him was half-hearted at best and dissolved into a dramatic eye roll when Greg blew him a kiss.

Before Greg could get himself into more trouble with his partner, Karl returned with their drinks. “Are you ready to order?” he asked, looking between them curiously as he unloaded the contents of his tray onto the table.

“Yeah, I think so,” Greg said, re-taking his seat. Swapping into sign language, he looked at Nat and David. “What’re you having?” 

Orders swiftly given, the four of them settled back into their seats properly and Greg couldn’t fight a smile at how well the night was going. “So, that’s all of it. I’m with Mycroft, it’s serious, and I’m moving in.” He reached for his glass and took a healthy swallow, watching amusedly as Nat all but vibrated in her seat and David shot her amused glances. 

“And we’d be delighted if you would join us at home tonight,” Mycroft said, the sharpness of his signs belying his confident expression. Greg always felt a glow of satisfaction at realising that he could read his partner, given that even Sherlock got him wrong most of the time. “It’s more spacious than your father’s flat, and there is a room prepared for you.”

“Ooh, yes!” Nat replied, relief colouring her expression. “No offence, Dad.”

“None taken.” Greg knew why his little girl would jump at the chance of staying anywhere but his flat, but he still felt a burn of shame. Between the divorce, still being putting Nat through university and teacher training, and his midlife crisis Harley Davidson, he’d never got around to finding a better flat. Not that it was a bad place per se, but the one bedroom and pokey bathroom made it a bit tricky to host guests, even with him subjecting his back to nights on the sofa. 

Mycroft had apparently picked up on Greg’s thoughts, because he nudged his leg under the table. “That’s settled, then,” he signed, moving the conversation on. “Greg tells me that you both teach. How are you finding it?” 

Much to Greg’s relief, the conversation flowed and the atmosphere was good. Not that he doubted Mycroft's ability to carry any gathering effortlessly, being the consummate conversationalist that he was, but introducing his daughter to the man he was hoping to spend the rest of his life with was a massive step, even without the irrational worry that they weren’t going to get on. A pleasant twenty minutes passed before Karl arrived with their meals just as David, with impeccable timing, launched into a story about the unfortunate kid who’d thrown up on his computer in the middle of his first lesson as an ICT teacher.

Conversation slowed over dinner as they dedicated themselves to their meals, but Greg didn’t miss the pleased looks Nat kept shooting at him and Mycroft, or the besotted glances David was sending her way. It was as good an outcome as he could have hoped for, and something deep inside him settled. Of course, nothing was ever entirely without incident, and their disturbance came just as Greg was finishing the last of his excellent steak. A couple two tables over had been bickering solidly since they’d arrived, the intensity of their argument growing by the minute. It reached its peak when the man, a rotund middle-aged man in a football shirt, slammed his cutlery down and shouted “That’s enough, Stella!” The attention this drew didn’t deter them in the least. Greg watched, fascinated, as Karl approached with a resigned smile and the couple set upon him, turning to him like he held the answer to the world’s every unanswered question. “Tell him, Karl! Tell him needing other men doesn’t make me a whore! A woman has needs but Charlie’s too much of a poof to meet them!” the red-haired woman wailed, tugging on the waiter’s hand.

“Some people shouldn’t be allowed out in public, and certainly not in such a respectable establishment as this,” Mycroft sneered, and quickly relayed the drama to Nat and David, who, having had their backs to the action, had missed excitement. “I sincerely hope that they haven’t managed to breed.”

Greg snorted at Nat’s expression, torn as she was between scandalised and trying desperately not to laugh. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Mycroft was an out and out bastard where most of humanity was concerned. “Don’t mind him, sweetheart,” Greg reassured, trying to reign in his smile. “He’s a bit of a bastard and doesn’t really do people.”

“I absolutely do not. Most are odious cretins with nary a wit between them,” Mycroft concurred. He gave one of his more charming smiles and raised his glass in salute. “Present company excluded, of course.” 

“Oh, you’re _smooth_ ,” Nat signed, giggling delightedly. Even David looked charmed, but Greg suspected that that was as much adoration of his girlfriend as anything Mycroft had said or done. 

“He could sell sand to Arabia if he wanted to,” Greg sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Give me more credit than that, dearest.” Mycroft smiled, distinctly sharkish. “That wouldn't present nearly enough of a challenge.”

“You’re so cute!” Nat gushed, clapping her hands together, her wide smile turning into a laugh at Mycroft’s faintly appalled expression. 

Greg fought laughter and decided that a rescue was in order. He turned his attention to David, who was apparently torn between amused and intimidated, and asked, “So, how’re your folks?”

As they enjoyed their desserts, the conversation flowed from David’s new twin siblings - a whole twenty four years his junior, much to his surprise - to the family holiday they had planned for the summer. It was to be the first time Nat spent so much time with them, and Gref knew his little girl well enough to spot her nerves. He smiled, pleased to see them thriving. A happy daughter was all he’d wanted since she’d been placed in his arms, and seeing it happening settled something in him on a fundamental level. As he finished his drink, nature made herself known; Greg internally lamented what middle-age had done to his ability to sink five pints without needing to visit the loo and stood. “Back in a mo.” Leveling a mock glare at Nat, he continued, “Behave yourself, you.”

The restaurant had filled further since they had arrived, and Greg didn’t quite get through the tables without incident; he managed to knock the arguing couple’s table as he passed. “Sorry,” he apologised, feeling his cheeks heat when Stella cast a longing look at him. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, gorgeous,” she said loudly, eyes travelling longingly from his crotch up to his face. “See, Charlie, that’s a _proper_ man. I bet _he_ can last more than thirty seconds without blowing his load.” Greg did the only thing he could: he fled for the safety of the gents’, practically able to _feel_ Mycroft’s amused gaze on his back. 

Business taken care of, Greg washed his hands. As he was rinsing, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink, and what he saw took him by surprise. He looked _happy_ , genuinely happy. A week ago, he’d been sitting in a shit hole of a pub, drowning his sorrows in bad booze, and now he was moving in with Mycroft - who was out in the restaurant charming his little girl - and he really couldn’t believe his luck. Grinning to himself, he made quick work of drying his hands and headed back to his family, taking the long way round in order to avoid another run in with Charlie and Stella. 

As he approached the table, his attention was drawn to Nat’s hands, which were apparently flying through sincere threats of dire harm if Mycroft hurt him. For his part, Greg’s partner was apparently taking what she was saying seriously; he expression was solemn as he nodded in acquiescence. 

“You have my word,” he promised as Greg re-took his seat. Smirking, he nudged Greg’s knee under the table. “You have an admirer. Should I be concerned?”

“Oh, piss off,” Greg huffed, feeling his cheeks heat. “She’s pissed as a newt.”

“She was looking at you like a kid looks through a sweet shop window,” David said, lips twitching. 

Relieved that the younger man had relaxed enough to tease him, Greg smiled back. “Yeah, and proper creepy it was, too. I think therapy might be in order.”

Nat laughed and drained her glass, the last of them to finish. “So, shall we get going?”

“Yes, preferably before your father decides to leave me for that woman,” Mycroft nodded, apparently entirely serious, and signalled for the bill. “I have use of a car and live close by; we’ll be home in time to see in the new year.”

“You’re going to love Mycroft’s flat,” Greg told Nat and David, deciding that it would be fun to spring that his partner also had a sodding great big country house on them at a later date. “It’s like something off one of those property porn shows, but with better furniture.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, resigned. “Really, dear, so dramatic; _our_ flat is nothing of the sort.” The bill arrived and the younger man insisted on paying, having his card ready to hand over before Greg had even spotted Karl approaching. “I insist. A celebration of the man I love agreeing to share a home with me and being introduced to his family.” The Lestrades at the table melted and David grinned, apparently delighted at seeing his de facto father-in-law blush so many times in one evening after the grilling Greg had given him when they’d met. Mycroft smiled and took his card when the payment went through. “We have an excellent two thousand and one Saint-Emilion with which we can toast the new year, and a wide selection of spirits; I’m sure there will be something you’ll enjoy.” 

David picked his and Nat’s bags up, more than either of them would normally bring to dinner out, but there hadn’t really been another option given how tight their time scales were. Greg smiled softly, watching as he kissed Nat, the young couple happy and at ease, even in public and in front of a largely unknown quantity. 

“They’re delightful. Thank you for introducing me; it means a great deal,” Mycroft told him, lips suddenly at Greg’s ear and causing goosebumps to erupt down his left side, once the others had left the table. It felt strange to hear the other man’s voice after an hour and a half of near silent conversation, and the timbre set something burning deep inside. “Now, _home_.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, blood positively singing with happiness. “Home.”


End file.
